


A Girl's Best Friend

by the_sylph_of_mind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3914713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sylph_of_mind/pseuds/the_sylph_of_mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is DIAMONDS DROOG and who is this beautiful, intelligent, terrifying dame that has you on the proverbial ropes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Girl's Best Friend

     Your name is DIAMONDS DROOG and your suit is ruined. You sigh and undo the top button of your shirt, examining the catastrophic damage. The most recent escapade into Felt territory had ended with copious amounts of bloodshed, and though you managed to avoid spilling any of your own on your shirt, nobody else showed that kind of courtesy. Slick has a bad habit of bleeding on you. You should start making him pay your dry-cleaning bills. On top of that, Deuce set off a poorly-timed bomb (as per usual) and now your suit reeked of not only blood but of various singed and expensive fabrics as well. You look like hell and you hate it.  
     You clutch your brow momentarily and consider lighting a cigarette, but decide against it, not wanting to add insult to injury, eyeing your crisp, burnt sleeve. What was the point to this stupid feud anymore? You’re all out of the game, in a new place in a new universe, somehow. You suppose after a while being a game construct stops mattering, and the universe decides you can do what you want. In the grand scheme of things, what can you hurt now? You guess this old grudge with the Felt is just that. An old grudge. Going through the motions. Ugh.  
     You open your BRAWLSOLEUM and select a replacement suit, removing your current battle-scarred one and laying it to rest in a box under your bed. You’ll give it a proper burial later. You shrug on a new shirt, thankful for the fresh fabric against your thick, black skin. You let the coat hang open but tighten your tie all the way, and rest a new hat on your brow, double-checking that your Swedish fish are still there.  
     You give the box bearing your tattered suit a sorrowful glance and nudge it under the bed with your toe. You shuffle around your pocket for your pack of cigarettes. Now, you suppose, is as good a time as any to head to the roof and try to relax.

 ...

     Damn, you don’t remember this staircase being so long. The elevator would be down for maintenance, wouldn’t it? Yeah, moving the Crew’s HQ to an actual building was a nice upgrade from an underground dump (certainly when compared to the Felt’s gaudy mansion), but the only low-profile smoking area was on the roof. Should your face come up on the news, you don’t want the other tenants to be able to recognize you from smoking next to you by the hot tub. Living underground had its perks, you decide.  
     You finally reach the final landing and, huffing a little, push the panic bar and let the cool sunlight flood into the stairwell and temporarily blind you.  
Despite being a pain to reach when the elevator needed maintenance, the secluded rooftop garden was nice. Slick might have a lot of drawbacks, but if given the opportunity, he sure knows how to pick a place. There is a fountain bubbling quietly in a little pond, surrounded by a barrier of tiny white flowers. A cotton cloth awning shades the entire area, and the view of the city is stunning, though not nearly as much as the stranger leaning against the balcony railing, with hair like gold and curves that a carapace just couldn’t hold a lighter to. She cups her chin in her palm, watching the sun set over the scrabble of the city below, her weight resting on one slender foot and her hip gently shifted to the side, where her other hand idles, tracing the belt of some kind of holster fastened around her waist. What is she even holstering, fancy chopsticks? Between two fingers she holds a long, black cigarette holder. Smoke wafts lazily up from its tip, ashes clinging stubbornly, refusing to fall.  
     Ice slithers to the pit of your stomach. Even if this stimulating dame couldn’t possibly have any connection to the Felt, you don’t like the way your teeth are set on edge. The door closes behind you and she turns. Her eyes meet yours and you feel her gaze appraise every square inch of you in nanoseconds, looking you up and down before smiling sweetly.  
     “Hello.”       
     “Er…evenin’.”  
     “Are you a new tenant?”  
     The simple question stumps you.  
     “Er…Yeah, yeah, just moved in a week ago on the fourth floor.” Wait—you’re telling her where you live? What are you doing!? How did she—? How does she—?  
She watches your face and smiles incrementally, seemingly aware of the confusion she caused you, and twirls her cigarette holder between her teeth before replying.  
     “Ah, I didn’t think we had been acquainted. Welcome. It’s a relief to know I am not the only one willing to climb a few extra flights in order to appreciate this spectacle on my cigarette break.” She gazes out over the city again, her eyes sparkling in the light.  
God, she’s so well spoken! Who is this girl? Where did she come from? How does she make your act crumble, your guard fly up, and your libido roar and thrash like a tortured lion?  
     “Are you alright? You seem nervous.”  
     She shakes you out of your reverie.  
     “Hm? Oh.” You chuckle lightly. “Just a bit. Only one other lady I know who carries around a cigarette holder like that and she ain’t all that nice.”  
     “I see. Well, so much for first impressions. Still, second impressions are important, as well.” She extends her hand to you, resting her other elbow on the balcony. “I am Rose Lalonde.”


End file.
